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A staring contest took place between Alfred, and the greasy gray-brown paper bag Arthur had brought him. The warmth it radiated, the comforting, rich fatty smell of those vile French fries and possibly a burger truly hypnotized him. He gulped and felt the separate particles of salt stuck on the side of those limp fries that barely resemble any potato flavor, the taste of that irrationally mushy bun, that sloppy but chewy patty, the bright yellow plastic cheese, barely any sauce and the withered pieces of light green lettuce. It was so gross, but something about that cheap fast food got to him; it offered him comfort, made him feel at home.
His stomach growled, his taste buds craved that disgusting but, oh, so delicious junk. There's no way he was going to eat.
When did this downward spiral begin exactly? He didn’t even know anymore. Developing such a deep, elemental hatred for what you are and gradually losing your connection to the real world is a long process. A process in which your sleeves keep getting longer, your clothes baggier while there is no significant change in your size, your throat redder and redder and your teeth of all things, thinner and weaker. You catch your voice cracking, notice little scars on your knuckles. Yet you choose to ignore these warning signs, because giving up would prove your deepest fears right.
Alfred despised everything about it, but didn't matter how much, he always hated his body more: his disgusting rolls, that were obviously there, even through multiple layers of clothing, his stretch marks, scattered all over his body like some nauseating flesh marble, thighs touching, always rubbing together, looking melted as it was the nature of the greasy material they were composed of. As a result he was unable to stop. He saw himself as a gross blob of fat, and the scale, the tape measures didn’t help him break that image. If anything, their silent agreement validated the claim that he, in fact, had it all coming. After all, it’s his own fault he has never been able to maintain a comfortable, average weight; of course it was, doesn't matter how unable he was to deal with the consequences. Those cruel numbers sentenced him to a lifetime of whispers behind his back, glances suggesting he’d better be elsewhere, laughs even, insults thrown at him in response to which he cracked a broken smile, indicating that he got the joke. The punchline was always the same. He’s the only one to blame for that.
His eyes were fixated on the darker stains, littering the brown paper. Drops of oil that absorbed into the material, presumably from some fries that pressed against it. This was the garbage he ate, he thought to himself, involuntarily narrowing his eyes.
But this time, there was no way he was going to, since that could only mean one thing. He’d have to get rid of it in some way again and as it was typical for so many things in his life: didn’t want to deal with the consequences. Even if he made the mistake of giving in to his urges, he couldn't live with the thought that there was yet again some fattening mush sliding down his throat. Then, he had to get it out. It was a compulsive need before, and an agonizing relief after he did it. His eyes teared up, his jaw dislocated, the ungodly liquid felt like it's pouring from all holes on his face; there was nothing soothing about the process. It had a bitter taste unlike anything else. He maybe could have chosen not to do so, but it wasn't clear if he felt worse with or without it. Something in his head chanted it was the right thing to do and the contradicting feelings were of shame, which lingered around him regardless.
Of course he was ashamed he had sunken so deep, he didn't want anyone around him to know about his thoughts and actions. Not that anyone would care because undeniably, he deserved it: the evidence being objective data and the many instructive happenings of his past. He was taught lots of things by the world, and he may be stupid as usual, well, he really learned everything.
The mental battles, the shame, his ways of disposing of his demons were kept secrets from the outside world. No one would notice, not like he was succeeding in becoming something his mind hated less. Something others hated less. Maybe something Arthur would be less ashamed to appear in public with.
Arthur, his boyfriend, the man who brought him the food he knew he'd like, with the best intentions, never gave any sign of despising the way Alfred looked. They started dating back when Alfred's problem wasn't so suffocatingly inescapable, but even then, Alfred couldn't imagine why he would have chosen him, he didn't complain though, maybe out of selfish desires. He saw Arthur more beautiful than anything. The guy was a notorious trouble maker, everyone in his circles knew a few stories about him getting drunk or into fights. Oh, and the level of lust he had... Not that it was a bad thing, but his libido was strong and he was known for having one night stands with all kinds of guys so immaculate, they looked like cutouts from an underwear catalog. For that, Alfred felt like he was out of his league. Not because Arthur himself was outstandingly attractive; he was a small, scrawny man with a hooked nose and monstrous, fuzzy eyebrows, wrinkles under his eyes and joints that cracked like whipper snappers, despite being in his early twenties. It was that he could have settled for anyone but picked him, of all people.
What did he see in him? As far as he knew, his most prevalent personality traits were being an immature idiot and a food addiction. Neither of them were especially desirable. He convinced himself he wasn't good looking either, and since in his world everything went according to his thoughts, disagreement was out of the question. Was it because he pitied him? A 19 year old virgin with a weight problem, with a love life history of constant rejections from both men and women. He was definitely pathetic, pitiable. That must be it. If he can't bring himself to love the person he was, then who could? He didn't deserve love or compassion. He didn’t even deserve the potential comfort of the junk food in front of him.
The more he racked his mind around it, the more he craved it. His thoughts were merciless, calling him the names he hasn't heard from the mouths of others in years, he just treasured the memories in his collection of reasons that justified his relation to himself... He wanted those feelings to stop once and for all.
"Aren't you eating?" Arthur appeared behind his back while he was lost in his thoughts, his voice startled him. "It is going to get cold, love."
Alfred didn't answer, just clenched his fist. He wasn't going to admit what was going on. Not now. Reality felt like it's slipping away, flowing through his fingers like sand. If he said anything now he'd definitely tear up and he can't let Arthur see him like that. He just can't. But why? What does he have to lose at this point? Arthur probably sees him as an oversized man-child anyway. He just really couldn’t go on feeling like that anymore, with his every moment being haunted by severe physical discomfort with his body. Impulses and desires that took complete control of him, pulling his strings like a marionette and always, he limply fell in the direction he was dragged like a sack of butter. This is a hostage situation where all parties were him after all… But still, if he makes a move there will inevitably be gunshots.
"Arthur, please don't laugh at me." he started with his head down, forgetting to put on the happy mask he showed to the outside world. Arthur stood there, clueless. He sounded chillingly serious, maybe equally as scared. Arthur was just about to voice his concerns, but Alfred continued.
"I....I need help, Artie...." he said without looking up. His voice lacked life, his tongue wrestling with words, trying hard to push them out of his mouth. In his lifetime he's heard all sorts of things that deeply affected him. Obviously, without them maybe he wouldn't have gotten so far. But out of all the personalized, hand crafted insults, dry summary of facts, somehow admitting his defeat cut the deepest. He wasn't strong, not even to deal with his own issues.
Arthur stood there not understanding what was going on one bit. Alfred loved to eat, even if it wasn't of exquisite quality; he got him some takeout every now and then to make him smile because he wasn't a great cook himself. He's always been happy to accept it, but now he was just staring at it with a heart breaking expression. Had he offended him? Is it just another absurd diet he's going to commit to for a week before giving up? Well, not that cutting out fast food would be unreasonable, but Alfred was known for jumping in on every crazy diet fad and some of them were indeed quite bad. Secretly, he was sort of relieved when he found Alfred had gone back to normal after a few days. He'd rather have him eat some stupid junk food than swallow juice soaked cotton pads. Not that he has specifically done that…. Well, at least he hasn't caught him in the act… That was the scariest thing about Alfred. He was an adult man with full independence and who knew what autonomous decisions he made but didn't share, like a stubborn child, that would end up harming him.
Arthur felt the same fear that has been lurking at the back of his mind ever since he had started dating Alfred, but now it wasn't a blurry abstract idea created by his subconscious. It was a sharp, clear word at the tip of his tongue.
"Please promise you won't make fun of me…" Alfred doubled down and finally looked back at the startled Arthur, teary eyed. His face read genuine concern and fear, even. Arthur suddenly felt his stomach drop, he couldn't have explained to himself why he was overrun by a wave of intense anxiety. The same feeling you'd get when your parents casually reference something bad or embarrassing even, you've been keeping a secret. It wasn't even his secret however.
"Why would I ever-" he mouthed the words mute, he wasn't able to squeeze sounds out of his swollen throat.
"Arthur, do you promise?"
Arthur nodded silently, unable to speak. His head moved hard and rough, but the reassurement was there.
"I don't think I can eat this… Gosh, I really wish I could, I'm going insane about how much." he groped his face anxiously "I know you're probably thinking I eat too much and i mean yeah, maybe… But I have also been… getting rid of it? Yeah... I hate hate hate it so much, Arthur. I don't want to keep throwing up."
Arthur slapped himself mentally, as if he was blaming himself for all of it. The "charm" of his chubby boyfriend dieting on and off, because of course he would, turned sinister. There must have been something behind it all along but he never bothered to ask because to him it seemed like a quirk, just a cute and clueless thing Alfred did like some kind of 2000s movie comic relief and now his own stupidity flowing back inside him like some warm tar-like fluid, filling him up head to toe and drowning all the rational thoughts and words that could have comforted his whimpering boyfriend. Like he didn't ignore his obsession with dieting because he subconsciously thought he'd never get too far with it anyway. He had been nothing but patronizing. Maybe he was sort of responsible after all: in a way he encouraged Alfred’s negative feelings about himself.
"I'm sorry it was just a waste of your money then…" Alfred mumbled, his palm still firmly around his mouth, head down. He forced his eyes to stay open, so a blink wouldn't start the puddle of tears in his eyes to roll down as a final statement of his defeat. He felt light headed and his chest was empty, yet it weighed him down, pulsing tensely as his heartbeat echoed in his ears.
"God fucking damn it, who cares about that?!" Arthur uttered in a state of shock. He was catching his breath as if he was trying to catch a reasonable thought that was flying around his head like some elusive butterfly. He didn’t even know where to begin, what would be appropriate to say in this situation. Anger was an emotion he was very familiar with and it served as a safe ground for him, but lashing out at him would be the last thing Alfred needs right now. It was safer to direct his anger at the inanimate bag, the catalyst of this difficult conversation. He was mad that this is how it had to come up, as an absolute last resort, like Alfred didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the issue. Come to think of it, Arthur wasn’t the most approachable person and he didn't react well to tough situations. The example writes itself. He’s being a prick and making it about himself and he has probably been insensitive like this before, without giving it any extra thought. Alfred was an unpredictable entity, one he found delightful but one he would never understand, and his lack of empathy just put him in an even more difficult situation.
“I’m sorry, Alfred…I had no idea.” I let you down, haven’t I?
Alfred’s heart clenched and he wanted to disappear. Would be cool if he could just unsay these things and continue to deal with it alone, without being an embarrassment, a burden. What a total catch, like his greasy back rolls weren’t enough to put up with, he also had issues in quantities that might put gossip magazines to shame. He shrugged and made a clumsy attempt at brushing Arthur’s worry off.
“Just giving you more reasons to pity me, I guess. It’s super not your fault that any of this is happening anyway.”
“Neither is it your fault.”
“Huh?” he raised his head at last, his pain put on hold by the shock of that statement. His cheeks were damp and sticky with paths drawn by tears across them. “I totally did this to myself though. I messed it up even more with trying to resolve it, but at the end of the day I only have myself to blame for-..”
“No, you don’t, because your body is not a mistake!” Arthur interjected, finding his voice as he recognized the argument as the kind they tended to have. That tone, he was familiar with so he could finally begin to divert the conversation in a progressive direction. Alfred would open up about his true feelings then immediately try to invalidate them. “You have committed no crime by merely daring to exist in a world that would constantly make you feel shite about yourself. Alfred, my darling, please… I promise you it is okay.”
“Okay for you maybe, ‘cuz you don’t have to deal with it. I’m just… so tired of myself at this point. I don’t even know why you even want me around. Be real, there’s nothing about me that would be worth the deal. Even if I wasn't so fat I’d be like a 6-ish? Solid 5/10 but like this ya gotta knock down a few points, and you know, you could just go and get anyone else.”
“But I don’t want anyone else!” he growled “-And stop with that numbering bullshit, you keep using numbers to justify your mistreatment of yourself. Listen, I don’t question the validity of your feelings, but allow me to say, and you will hate me for this: you aren’t even that big and the way you describe yourself is extremely troubling.”
“Probably!” Alfred scoffed “I highly doubt I have done or felt anything remotely healthy my whole life. I get a ton of feedback on that…” he crossed his arms and leaned back on the chair with a crackling noise. He seemed more annoyed, maybe a tad bit embarrassed, but definitely not in severe distress anymore.
Arthur stepped closer and pulled out a chair next to his boyfriend, sat down and laid his palm on his thigh.
“So you recognize you don’t deserve it after all?” he spoke softly “You find unsolicited comments to be unjust, because you know it’s not how you deserve to be treated. Stop lying to yourself.”
Alfred furrowed his brows.
“Dunno how else I’m s’posed to feel.“ he mumbled, attempting to swipe Arthur’s hand off of him, who in turn grabbed his.
They stared at each other; Alfred with a deadpan face and Arthur with determination, as if their usual roles were switched in the chaos. Truth is, Alfred didn’t feel like there was any lifeforce left in him, the last bit of willpower and energy evaporated as his stomach continued to growl. As much as Alfred wanted the soul aching feelings of dread eternal hunger to stop, he couldn’t bring himself to believe Arthur. Maybe he spoke out of pity again, the same way as he assumed he pursued a relationship because only he felt bad for him for having otherwise no chance at such a thing. After all, he knew himself the most and Arthur was merely an outsider; unlike him Alfred knew what kind of person (monster?) he really was, a primal creature controlled by its urges, his entire life revolving around food. A constant, haunting need to fill and gain any sense of satisfaction his life lacked, then comes the shame and endless guilt, a need to hide and deprive yourself of your indulgences. He was a beast, or there was a beast in him he couldn’t tame and thus lost respect for himself as the leader of his life.
He couldn’t bear to look Arthur in the eye.
So there was silence. Arthur was out of words of comfort so he held onto Alfred, persistently, not wanting to let him go and let him sink into the depth of his internal turmoil. He loved him truly and deeply and tried to communicate that with his whole being. How his bony fingers wrapped around Alfred’s hands were a confession of love and so was the worry in eyes, the way he quietly listened to him sniffle. Even the stupid bag of trash food was a symbol for love, although the wrong one in this scenario. He knew he wanted reassurance, that he craved comfort, that he’d soak up all signs of affection and compassion, if it wasn’t for the barrier of self doubt he built around himself. There wasn’t much else Arthur could have done, just sit there, hold his hand and never leave his side.
“We have to get you professional help, my love…”
Alfred sighed and nodded ever so slightly.